


in the depths of the dreaming earth

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Burdens of Responsibility [4]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, crack with feelings, spoilers for Moon Over Soho, spoilers for Whispers Under Ground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Seawoll recovers from Covent Garden, then goes back to work.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Series: Burdens of Responsibility [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1522985
Comments: 25
Kudos: 41





	in the depths of the dreaming earth

**Author's Note:**

> Takes us through Moon Over Soho and Whispers Under Ground.  
Thanks to PerchingOwl for swift and amazing beta.  
Title from Whispers Under Ground.

Alex starts awake, his forehead streaming, a heavy weight pressing on his chest. He can still hear the roar of the crowd, jubilant and mocking. He feels his limbs, moving without his control. He sees himself in the action of pushing Grant’s head through the noose, feels the urge to see him strung up, the elation and bloodlust washing over him. The contempt for anyone weaker, anyone who can be manipulated.

His breathing is short and his heartbeat remains fast as the nightmare recedes. He hates this. He _hates_ this. And he hates the fact that it might have been preventable. Not only for him; the nightmares, god knows are no picnic, but they are at least recurring less often.

But May. May, who was going to be one of his Valkyries. Where was she now? Bloody May and bloody Grant and _bloody_ Nightingale. What a fucking mess this had been and why had no one stopped it. Why, he thought for the hundredth time, had those who were supposed to fucking _know_ about this weird shit not done anything to stop it?

As ever, and as instructed, he breathes deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and waits for his breathing to return to normal.

*

Alex was off work for over four months all told and he missed it like a limb. The nightmares receded, but never went away completely, and he learned to live with that. He was helped by the therapist he started to see - not mandated by the Met, as it really bloody should have been, something else to add to his workload when he got back. He couldn’t tell her everything, of course, she’d've have him sectioned if he had. But it helped, and Alex was not stupid enough not to take help wherever it is offered.

He was kept in hospital for a fortnight in the end, then sent home with strict instructions to rest. He rattled around his house in Canonbury - though it’s a relatively small house and he’s a relatively big man - and felt itchy, somehow, that he was still in the city, but not able to _do_ anything.

Eventually, he surrendered and hired a cottage on the coast for a month, which his therapist thought was a _splendid_ idea. He only went as far as Suffolk, though, so he wouldn’t be too far away if the Met needed him and wanted to call him back. But of course it didn’t, or if it did, Miriam and a rotating cast of DCIs protected him from it.

He spent his time in Suffolk walking, and reading, and knocking his head on the low beams of the local pub. Being there meant also that Miriam and the missus could come up and spend a weekend; it was August, and the light was changing, the crops were being harvested, and Alex longed for the sodium glare and the carbon monoxide of Highbury Corner. They seemed to like it though.

While they were visiting, Miriam brought him up to speed with the latest gossip from Belgravia and he could tell she was being very careful not to mention the m-word. Alex asked her straight out if she’d had any _unusual_ cases to deal with, and she hesitated, and then said ‘No, guv. Nothing to speak of,’ and he had to be satisfied with that.

Miriam was by far one of the best sarges he’d ever had, and Alex loved her dearly, but even he would admit that subtlety was not her strong point. So when she dropped airily into the conversation that she’d heard Nightingale had been discharged from UCH and was recuperating at the Folly, still confined to a wheelchair, he was able to give her a cool look and say ‘Oh?’ and _she_ had to be satisfied with that.

He didn’t think about Nightingale. He hadn’t visited him in the hospital, even when they were only doors away. He didn’t regret not speaking to Nightingale when he’d come to his room that time; it had been safer – the state he’d been in then– not to speak to him at all. And afterward when his mind started to settle he had nothing to say to him that would help matters: Why didn’t you know? Why couldn’t you stop it? Why did May’s face fall off? Why did you let yourself get shot?

He couldn’t think about Nightingale and what had happened at Covent Garden. Mainly because he didn’t know what to think. He blamed Nightingale for what had happened, and he blamed him for his own guilt. That _he_ hadn’t been able to protect May, or Grant. He blamed him for Mr Punch, or whatever the fuck it had been, creeping into his brain and then destroying his sense of self for a good while, and preventing him from doing his job, which he was fucking good at, for four whole months.

But what riled Alex most of all, it turned out, was that, on top of all of that, Nightingale didn’t even behave like a proper copper, acted like he didn’t fucking need to. He certainly didn’t get the results or seem to have to play by the same rules as the rest of them. Whatever happened, the brass just waved him through, and it drove Alex fucking mad.

*

He returned to London, feeling better, he was willing to admit, and counted off the days until he was allowed back to work. He had dinner a couple of times with an ex, who’d got in touch when he’d heard Alex had been unwell. It turned into more than dinner the second time, and that was fine and good, but it wasn’t the same. And Alex almost entirely convinced himself that the “same” he meant was the ex.

As Alex waited impatiently in the last weeks before he could get back to Belgravia, he heard about Grant taking an ambulance into the Thames – really, he couldn’t even be surprised by this stage – and for the only time in his leave he was glad not to have been at work and not to have had to deal with some of the inevitable fallout.

Miriam had told him this; she was starting to bring him up to speed on doings at Belgravia, and he almost wished she hadn’t. Blokes with their dicks bitten off in public places for fucks sake and a Soho clip joint that specialised in real cat people or some such. He couldn’t really get much out of Miriam on the details of that one, but he did learn that Nightingale had gone in single-handed to clear it – and got himself hospitalised for his trouble. Alex gave him credit for that, but, he thought wryly to himself, it had never been Nightingale’s bloody courage that was in question.

*

After Alex’s return to work, it was a full two months before anything remotely bollocks-related turned up, which he considered a pretty fair result. The first time he’d seen Grant again, he’d managed to avoid answering the question of whether Nightingale should be called in. Luckily, as the bollocks to non-bollocks ratio of the case in question was pretty low, he could credibly keep Grant as main contact and, more to the point, keep an eye on him at Belgravia nick.

He’d seen Nightingale a few times since he’d got back, inevitably, across the room at senior briefings, and once at New Scotland Yard. He’d heard Nightingale was haring around the Home Counties trying to chase down leads on that incident in Soho in September, so the sightings were overall less frequent than they might have been, which was probably for the best.

They’d only really spoken once, when Nightingale approached him as they were milling about after a GDPR seminar.

‘Alexander. Good to see you back. How are you? I’ve been meaning to ask.’

‘Thomas. Well, thank you. As well as could be expected.’

‘Good. Good. Um-‘ Nightingale struggled without the standard polite inquiries in response.

Alex put him out of his misery ‘I heard May has joined your lot.’

‘Not officially,’ said Nightingale.

‘But she has moved into that nick of yours. With you and Grant.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes. She has.'

‘What a waste,’ said Alex, the frustration creeping in again. ‘Just make sure you-‘ he couldn’t say ‘look after them’, it sounded absurd, even though that’s what he meant, so he fell back on glowering.

Alex saw the quick flash of anger in Nightingale’s eyes, before Nightingale drew himself up to his full height and stalked away without another word.

After that, they merely circled each other warily and spoke only on the rare occasions that the Portobello case demanded it.

*

But when Alex was told about the settlement of people who’d been living under Notting Hill for a couple of hundred years give or take, and that _no one had fucking known about_, one of whom had just put an officer under six feet of tube platform, it really was the absolute, gold-plated, fucking limit.

They were in the incident room at Belgravia and Alex was more than aware of the impropriety of dressing down a fellow senior officer in front of his juniors, but on this occasion he just couldn’t help himself.

‘It is certainly unfortunate-‘ Nightingale said.

‘It’s more than fucking unfortunate,' said Alex. 'It’s unprofessional.’

He saw Nightingale flinch and the shocked glance exchanged by Grant and Stephanopoulos.

‘You’re right, of course. And I apologise for the oversight.’

Alex hadn’t been expecting that. It wasn’t enough, of course. It wasn’t nearly enough, but, as he listened to Nightingale try to explain himself, it was a start. Alex had also seen the mortification on Nightingale’s face at the accusation, fair though it was, and so, when Grant came barrelling back in, babbling about E.coli, and Alex got ready to – what was it? – oh yes, save the fucking day again, he addressed Nightingale directly once more.

‘Thames Water is a bit of an afterthought now, wouldn’t you say? And I need to round up the troops; can you lend a hand Thomas?’

‘Um, certainly,’ said Nightingale, looking slightly bewildered.

‘This way then.’ It wasn’t a request.

Alex led the way to his office on the first floor, leaving Stephanopoulos and Grant upstairs to get on with the logistics of the operation, and with only the briefest look from Miriam as she watched them leave.

Alex opened the door to his office and gestured for Nightingale to take a seat. He sat behind the desk himself and picked up the ‘phone. Some ten minutes of calls later, and Nightingale was starting to fidget.

‘Did you want me to-‘ he began.

Alex held up a finger. ‘A few more minutes, if you can spare it. I’ve just got a couple more favours to call in.’

A few minutes later Alex replaced the receiver and sat back in his chair. The wheels were turning now, and it would be two or three hours until they bore fruit. Noone had been down to bother them and he assumed Stephanopoulos and Grant would be still be engaged with the practical arrangements.

‘So, what was all that about?’

Nightingale snapped out of the abstraction into which he had fallen.

‘Sorry? All what?’

‘The fallen comrades. The lack of support. I thought that was how you preferred to operate. Moving in mysterious ways your wonders to perform. I thought that was the arrangement. I wouldn’t have expected that little speech twelve months ago,’ he continued, ‘You would have sent me away with a flea in my ear. So I’ll ask again – while we’re here and we’ve got the time – what was all that about?’

As Alex watched Nightingale closely, he could see him sag slightly at these words, about as much as anyone with a ramrod spine could sag.

Nightingale shook his head.

‘Come on,' prompted Alex. 'We won’t be needed for a while yet. And I spend enough time putting the fear of god into this lot that they won’t dare disturb us unless Covent Garden’s on fire. Again,’ he added reflectively. He continued, ‘You’ve never, in all the years I’ve known you, come out with anything quite like that, so, indulge me, why now?’

Nightingale looked around helplessly, but then he began to speak.

‘I… don’t know. I dare say you could put it down to Grant’s influence. Or if not his influence, per se, then the matter of my having responsibility for him. Having responsibility for anyone really. It does put things into perspective rather...’ he trailed off.

Alex sat silently and waited for him to continue.

‘You see, I thought, we all did, those of us who were left, after the war that the m-‘ he looked up inquiringly at Alex who nodded.

‘..that the magic was going away. I was barely called in, except to examine monsters – the human sort I mean – and ascertain whether they were acting under any malign influence.’

Alex nodded, and Nightingale went on.

‘Either that or the odd rogue creature which was threatening to cause a disturbance, and the means required for that were not subtle. And if I wasn’t called upon, then I didn’t presume.’ He gave a rueful half-smile. ‘Peter would no doubt say that I was not sufficiently proactive.’

Alex hmphed.

‘But then, as you know, for the last dozen years or so, likely more, the demands on my time and… expertise have been greater. Culminating in the abominations earlier this year which, well, I needn’t remind you.’

‘No,’ said Alex emphatically.

‘And it became too much for me to believe realistically that I could manage alone. So it was agreed, once there was undeniable evidence of the rise in magical activity, to waive the arrangement, and to train an apprentice to take over in the event, well, of my demise. I may have a somewhat arbitrary relationship with the usual effects of ageing, but I am not, as you know, impervious to physical harm.’

Alex remained silent.

‘But until that point, it was only I…’ Nightingale faltered. ‘For many years I was the only one. I mean, I was, am, the only sanctioned wizard in Britain. I was obliged to join the police service after the war; it was the most appropriate use of my skills at the time, and, at that time, I was happy to be shown the way.’ He paused. ‘I’m a soldier. I follow orders. This isn’t the position I sought; it was, to some extent I suppose imposed upon me; oh, but,’ he waved a hand before Alex could interrupt, ‘I was willing enough to accept it. Given what had happened… it seemed easiest to do as I was told. I don’t say that was the right thing; I don’t know what the right thing would have been at that time, but-‘

Nightingale paused to consider, ‘I’m not like you, Alex, this was never my chosen path. I’ve done what I could, or tried to, and kept the Folly together to the best of my ability.’

Alex noted Nightingale’s use of the name he had only once given him permission to use, but Nightingale seemed unaware of it.

‘So in any event, I had to maintain the appearance that that was enough, that that would _do_ \- for those, of course, who chose to know about it. Because I was the Nightingale. And because, if I did not maintain appearances, then who knew what would rise up through the cracks. The Nightingale’ he laughed bitterly to himself. ‘But,' he said, recovering, 'you do see?’

Alex nodded. He couldn’t imagine it, but he could see.

Nightingale sighed.

‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You won’t remember, of course,’ he smiled wryly, ‘but before the war, when the Folly had the manpower… we lived in a different world. Anything that we did not understand, nor could not control, was tarred with the same brush. You have to understand also, that, at that time, we were in the run-up to a second world war, and trying to counter, inasmuch as we could, the rise of fascism and what that threatened. There were some…’ Nightingale hesitated, ‘one at least, who tried to work out a way forward, to bring the magic into the twentieth century. But it came to nothing.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In essence, we didn’t know what was coming and we didn’t prepare. And so: you were left with me. And... I let myself get too comfortable.’

‘And now, I suppose, that time is over.’ He paused, raising his eyes from where he had been staring at the floor and looking directly at Alex. ‘Does that answer your question? I’m not entirely sure I can recall what the actual question was.’

‘It does,’ said Alex. ‘Thank you.’

Nightingale looked thoughtful. ‘I haven’t said.. _all_ of this to anyone before, you realise? Not in so many words at any rate.’

‘I get it,’ said Alex.

‘I mean, we do have an unofficial archivist of sorts, but even he-’

‘It’s fine,’ said Alex. ‘Really. It won’t go any further.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Thank you.’

They sat in silence for a few moments, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.

‘Right well,’ said Alex, rising, ‘we should have an hour or so until we’re needed, so why don’t you go back to your nick and get tooled up, or whatever it is you need to do.’

‘Yes, right.’ Nightingale rose also and turned toward the door.

Alex stepped behind him to leave and, as Nightingale paused to turn the handle and pull the door towards him, Alex placed a hand, for no more than a second or two, on Nightingale’s shoulder.

Nightingale hesitated, and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, then they both filed out of the office.

*

He couldn’t say how exactly, but, as they waited for the operation to begin, Alex felt lighter as a result of his conversation with Nightingale. It hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t already known, or couldn’t have guessed, but he’d felt some of the weight of recrimination lift. Maybe because he’d accepted that there were no easy answers when it came to the weird shit – and really, he supposed that was probably the very bloody nature of it – and, consequently, that there was no single person to blame. His therapist would be so proud.

As the brass kept telling him, the magic didn’t seem to be going anywhere, so he could either continue to pretend the Folly didn’t exist, or work alongside it, particularly now it was more than just Nightingale, and maybe help them get some decent bloody collars for once. And _maybe_ manage a bit less fucking property damage.

When they reconvened at Westbourne Park Road, Alex couldn’t help rolling his eyes when he spotted Nightingale, loitering dramatically under a street light in that fucking trench coat. He couldn’t deny, annoyingly, that he looked good in it, but he steadfastly refused to pursue that thought. Nightingale was looking much happier – no doubt because he was about to charge into the unknown, and face down fuck knows what: a soldier, like he said.

Alex strolled over to join him in baiting that stuck-up CTC pen-pusher Kittredge while they waited for everyone to get ready. Which they did, in tandem no less. And it was funny, and he grinned at Nightingale and Nightingale grinned back; and then he felt it.

‘Oh, _fuck_,’ thought Alex.


End file.
